Chionophobia
by FireOpal
Summary: AC slash. There's a reason why Hell has so many fires. A freak snowfall in London has a strange effect on a certain demon, and it's up to Aziraphale to lend a helping hand.


Comments - Well, this was written in the British amazingly-hellfireishly-hot heatwave (that has now disappeared to be replaced by our usual weather :( ), and it was a great way to try to pretend I was cold. It even worked! Plus I wanted to have a more thorough try at this pairing as I love reading it and there is no way near enough GO fic in the world.  
So we have snow, and we have demons and angels... It really is very simple. I hope you enjoy.  
By the way, I know that the idea of snow in London is stretching the imagination. But if any of you saw Doctor Who 'The Christmas Invasion', the fake snow scenes may help in picturing it. -  
The title, chionophobia, is the fear of snow. How intelligent of me. (And it actually exists - fascinating!)

* * *

**Chionophobia**

Crowley hates snow.

It's not just a low-grade hate that is naturally reserved by demons for everything in existence, or even the medium-level hate reserved for humanity alone. It doesn't even reach the heights of hate-hate, which is specifically given to the things he, Crowley, hates, among which he lists houseplants, Handel and anyone going within five feet of his precious Bentley without permission signed in triplicate, burned, rewritten and then under his strict personal supervision.

No, snow deserved special mention in the annals of Crowley's extended existence.

The problem was really that demons, on the whole, were cold creatures. Hell was full of fire and smoke and damned good coffee. Add to this Crowley's serpentine alter ego, and you had one naturally cold demon.

So of course he hated snow. It was natural. Plus he never understood the hype – everyone kept enthusing about how fluffy and white and soft it was, never mentioning the fact that it was absolutely freezing, wet and made his nose hurt.

But what made it particularly horrendous, was Aziraphale. The angel, in true holy fashion, adored the stuff – the beauty and whiteness making him glow even more than usual, not even noticing the sudden reticent grouchiness in Crowley's mood during the foul weather.

He'd had a rough day of it that day, tempting and annoying and generally spreading bad will. What with the weather and time of the year it wasn't particularly hard, but where the cold actually helped his job, it also ruined his mood. So he'd rung up the angel and asked him to the Ritz, hoping that with the alcohol and the food (and, he grudgingly admitted, the companionship) would help.

It had helped, to start with. The wine had warmed him inside like he hadn't felt for months, and the food was delicious and remarkably filling. Even Aziraphale's companionship was good, so long as he kept his demonic activity under check and didn't complain when the angel was overly polite.

But then they'd got outside to discover that the threatening clouds from earlier had unleashed their load, and added to the treacherous ice underfoot in a thick layer of disgustingly white snow. Honestly, he thought to himself, glaring at the stuff through the window as Aziraphale shrugged on his coat. There was a reason he had come to London – famed for its lack of snow, ice and cold.

"Something wrong, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, laying his hand on Crowley's shoulder, his softly angelic expression concerned.

"No, nothing's wrong," he replied quickly, readjusting his sunglasses. Ignoring the odd look he was getting from the porter, he opened the door, resisting the urge to flinch as a blast of icy air hit him. Aziraphale shot him a quick look – his reply must've been suspicious somehow – before exiting, murmuring a thank you.

Shoving his hands in his pockets and trusting his impeccable balance to keep him upright, he bunched his hands into fists in an effort to keep warm, his collar already turned up against the night air. Damn the stuff. It was absolutely ruining his shoes…

"Isn't this fantastic?" Aziraphale commented from beside him, stepping carefully to avoid slipping. "Snow in London - who would've thought?"

"Yeah, who would've thought?" he echoed darkly, glancing over the top of his sunglasses so he could see where he was going. His tone attracted the even more concerned glance of the angel beside him, who laid his hand gently on Crowley's arm.

"There's no-one around, Crowley, why don't you take them off?"

Crowley raised one eyebrow. "What, and shock every mortal passer-by into slipping on this ice?"

"Well you could just disguise them for once," Aziraphale returned slightly testily. "It's not beyond you, you know my dear. I think you'd suit a nice dark shade of brown."

"But brown's so dull," Crowley protested. Even so, he pulled off the tinted lenses, snapping them shut smartly and placing them in his breast pocket. Aziraphale saw, with a spark of pleasure, that his eyes were a deep, chocolate brown, looking strangely right in his face.

Noting the small smile on the angel's face, Crowley just scowled a little, though he had to admit it felt good to see it. Hugging himself a little tighter, he bitterly noticed as he sped up his step, that the clouds were opening again, sending tiny flecks of white down from a dark sky. Shrinking inside his coat, he shuddered slightly when they hit the exposed skin on his face. Damn - why had he parked the Bentley so far away?

Trying desperately to keep up with the demon's quickening pace, Aziraphale skidded slightly across the pavement. Frowning slightly in concentration, he tried to look across at Crowley's face to judge his expression. Usually after one of their nights out, the demon was almost mellow, devious, and more than a little drunk. Now however...

Opening his mouth to phrase a question, his foot suddenly hit a nasty patch of black ice and he went flying, grasping panicked at Crowley's arm as he fell.

With a rather embarrassing yelp, he hit the ground hard, almost dragging a certain surprised demon along with him.

"Ow," he said emphatically, feeling shaken.

"Are you alright?" Crowley asked quickly, offering his hand. Taking it, Aziraphale pulled himself up with a groan, rubbing his posterior ruefully.

"Nothing broken, but I think I'm bruised all over," he replied as lightly as he could. To his surprise, Crowley's hand quickly disappeared back into his pocket, though he crooked his arm and gestured for him to take it.

"I'm not carrying you back to the car, so you'd better hold onto me," Crowley said evenly. Taking the proffered elbow gratefully, they set off again.

"Are you cold?" Aziraphale asked, noting the alarmingly pale tint of his friend's skin. "I can miracle you some gloves if you'd like, my dear..."

"I'm fine," the demon replied shortly.

With a small smile to himself, Aziraphale gestured minutely with his free hand and a soft pair of black woollen gloves appeared in his hand. Mutely, he passed them over to his friend, who grudgingly took them, slipped them on, and then jammed his hands in his pocket again.

For a moment he was tempted to miracle a matching scarf, but he knew that the demons' patience often wore thin, especially when he was in one of his moods like this. What was odd though, was that he couldn't figure out where this had come from. And besides, there was the Bentley just ahead, it's top covered lightly in snow.

Sighing wistfully, he was tempted to make a remark about how beautiful the night was, but Crowley was already pulling out his keys and fiddling with the lock. After a moment, frowning, he jiggled the key around, tried the handle, and swore.

"Problem?"

"The lock's frozen up," Crowley muttered, jiggling some more. He swore again as this had no effect, and withdrew the key, folding his arms tightly across his chest and stamping his feet.

"Can't you-?" Aziraphale gestured.

"No, won't work."

"Why not?"

"I don't know!" Crowley snapped. "I've tried it before."

"OK, OK," Aziraphale soothed. "Let me try." Bending over, he peered at the ice-cold lock, then touched it gently with his fingers. He wasn't exactly sure how one when about unfreezing locks, but he sent it a good dose of healing power, took the key and jiggled. There was still no effect.

"OK, we'll have to walk – it's not that far," the angel said lightly.

"There must be some way of getting this to work," Crowley muttered, taking back the key and forcing it back into the hole.

Concerned, Aziraphale placed his arm to restrain Crowley's. "You'll scratch the paint if you're not careful. Come on, it's only a couple of blocks to my bookshop, and I'll brew you up some cocoa."

Nodding curtly, he stepped back, the key disappearing into his pocket along with his hands. Sighing, Aziraphale quickly followed the demon, who seemed desperate to win the world's first cross-snow marathon. Trying to keep to the obviously snow-covered parts of the pavement to avoid ics, he wondered why Crowley was getting so upset. After all, it was only a bit of snow – they'd faced the end of the world together, and the demon was getting more perturbed by the cold weather. Maybe he was coming down with something, if that was even possible. As he caught up, he tried to surreptitiously scan his friend's face.

Without his glasses, he looked strangely vulnerable, and the deep, dark eyes against his ice-white skin (made pale by the cold) also made him look desperately human. There was a tiny blush of pink to the end of his nose, but his lips were tinged with purple, almost blue. This, of all the times he'd seen Crowley, over the six thousand years he'd known him, was the closest he'd come to looking almost angelic, and he felt a peculiar wrench at his heart. He hadn't known Crowley before the Fall, and he wondered how he could've missed out on such a good friend.

"Crowley, did you wear one of those ridiculously thin suits of yours again?" he asked suddenly, getting fed up and materialising a scarf. Stopping the demon, he looped it around his neck in one swift gesture and wrapped it tightly, tucking the ends neatly into his coat.

"No," the demon replied, his teeth chattering a little.

"You're shivering!" Aziraphale realised suddenly, putting his hands quickly to the top of Crowley's arms and rubbing vigorously. His lips were turning an almost alarming shade now, and Aziraphale was at a loss. "You've gone and caught a cold or something, haven't you? You should've told me, my dear, we could've eaten in tonight before it got too cold."

"Not gotta cold," Crowley muttered between chattering teeth.

"Come on, the sooner we get back, the sooner we can get you warmed up," Aziraphale decided firmly, taking Crowley's arm and leading him ahead.

The trip back through the snow-covered streets was cold and hard, each trying to lean on the other to avoid slipping and trying to move fast enough to keep warm. When finally the bookshop was in sight, they half ran, half staggered to the door and fell in, closing the door behind them.

Though the shop wasn't heated, the shelter stopped the icy wind, which was an immediate comfort. Eyes tight shut with traces of moisture dusting his eyelashes, Crowley stopped dead in the middle of the shop and just shivered, unable to move.

"Come on my dear," Aziraphale coaxed, pulling him gently into the backroom, where he set a roaring fire in the grate that Crowley had always mocked him for having. Pulling an armchair forward, he pushed the demon into it and went to quickly put on a kettle to boil.

When he came back, Crowley hadn't moved, his eyes staring into the flickering flames as if they held the answers to life, the universe and everything. Sighing, Aziraphale stepped forwards and vanished the rather wet outer clothes without even a guilty twinge, and then quickly changed the crumpled suit into a soft pair of pyjamas. Trying to get a response from the demon, he coloured them a nice and cheerful tartan.

Still, he just sat in a half daze, though when Aziraphale came forward with a freshly brewed mug of cocoa (complete with liberal dash of whisky), he raised his gaze and quirked his chapped lips.

"That was my favourite suit."

"It was also soaking wet," the angel remarked, handing him the mug. "Careful, it's hot."

"I should damn well hope so," Crowley replied, clasping it tightly, returning his gaze to the fire. Sighing, Aziraphale pulled off his own clothes and dashed upstairs to change into some drier, warmer clothes and grab his dressing gown. Also, as he passed the bathroom, he grabbed a towel, remembering how wet the demon's hair had got from melting snow.

Crowley just sat, feeling his entire body feel numb and cold, despite the boiling mug in his hands and the fire before him. He could feel their heat wash over him, but his bones felt like ice, so he curled up on the chair, pulling his knees to his chest and took a quick mouthful of cocoa. It burned his tongue, but the pain was a brief respite from the cold, so he welcomed it.

Go-He- _Fuck_ how he hated the cold. Something in it reminded him of Back Then, of lying on his back, not knowing or caring where he was because of the pain and the cold and the emptiness…

He shivered harder, the scalding cocoa splashing over his hands, though he still felt freezing. Luckily, he was distracted by the re-entrance of Aziraphale, who took one look at him and moved quickly across, taking the mug out of his hands and throwing a large, threadbare dressing gown over him. Kneeling by the chair, the angel then took his hands – how had he never noticed how warm and soft Aziraphale's hands were? – and rubbed them gently with his own, trying to circulate the blood and warm them.

"Ha-ave I ev-ver said," Crowley stuttered, "how g-good you are t-t-to me?"

Aziraphale smiled gently, flashing his angelic expression up at the ashen demon.

"No, my dear – you never had to," he replied warmly. "Feeling any better?"

"N-not-t mu-uch," the demon admitted. Aziraphale rubbed more briskly. Then, caught by an idea, he picked up the towel he had dropped on his way in and draped it on the guard in front of the fire to warm. After a few moments, noticing the pink starting to return to the familiar aristocratic hands in his, he grabbed the warm towel, and pressing a chaste kiss to the skin, he wrapped them up tightly in the cloth.

Kneeling up, he scrutinised the demon's hair critically, and found thankfully that it was drier than it had been. Still, he grabbed the sleeve of the dressing gown and wiped away the moisture from Crowley's face carefully, avoiding the slightly-confused gaze. He did notice however that the demon's concentration had slipped, and instead of dark brown, the eyes he was avoiding were a familiar golden yellow.

"Do you think you can drink some of this?" he asked evenly, picking up the cocoa. Crowley nodded, his gaze following Aziraphale as he raised the mug to his lips, prompting him to drink.

"I feel like a baby," the demon complained when he had drunk some, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes, a slightly smile on his face.

"Well judging by your humour, you're getting better," he remarked, offering the mug again. When the drink was finished, he miracled it away with a deft hand, before checking the demon's temperature with the back of his palm.

"Mmm," Crowley murmured appreciatively, his eyes slipping shut. The angel's touch felt beautifully warm against his skin, sort of soft and light, like the presence of Aziraphale himself. It was almost unnatural, and oddly comforting.

"Crowley?"

The hand was moving away again, so he stopped it, reaching out to grab that blissful wrist gently as he opened his eyes again. His hands were shaking but where they contacted that skin it was as if the angel was exuding warmth. He tried to focus on the worried, puzzled blue eyes, tried to show that he wasn't trying to hurt him, he just wanted that feeling back. The comfort and the warmth…

Seeming to understand, Aziraphale reached out to press his hand tenderly against Crowley's cheek, thumb brushing his cheekbone. He felt a small smile creep to his lips.

"Feelssss good," he muttered, trying to make the confused angel understand. "Warm."

"No wonder," Aziraphale replied, not moving his hand. "Your skin is freezing."

"No, not just warm," he returned. "Ssort of ssoft. Nicce."

"I never took you to be a romantic," the angel commented, amused. "Oh, come here."

To Crowley's vague surprise, he pulled the demon off of the chair and onto his lap, wrapping his arms around the blanket-covered demon. Even through the cloth, the sudden infusion of warmth hit him like sinking into a hot bath, and despite the parts of his rather fuddled mind that were laughing and screaming at him, he laid his head against the soft shoulder and sighed.

"Definitely a romantic," he heard Aziraphale murmur, and though he wanted to protest – how could a demon be a romantic? Demons didn't do romance – he couldn't find the energy to do anything but sit there, curled up in the angel's arms. Somewhere along the lines, his eyes slid shut again, and because he felt so warm and comfortable and it was so peaceful, he did the predictable thing and fell asleep.

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Aziraphale shifted into a slightly more comfortable position and stretched his legs. He didn't want to move him too much, or Crowley might wake up. Sleep was good and healing, and if he dropped off that quickly then he probably needed it. Well, of course neither of them _needed_ sleep, but after six thousand years and all, it not only became habit but a good survival mechanism, allowing them a bit of time off so to speak.

He wasn't sure how long passed until he felt him tense and shift. Drifting out of contemplation, he wondered how Crowley would react to waking up entangled in an angel, but one look at the demon's features told him he was still asleep. A dream then.

Crowley frowned, closing his eyes more tightly as he curled in on himself. Aziraphale sighed. A nightmare then.

"Crowley? My dear?" Untangling his hand, he gently shook one thin shoulder, and then a little harder when he didn't get a reaction. The demon's skin was still very pale, coupled with a little redness around his eyes, so he still hadn't recovered from whatever it was was wrong with him. Torn for a moment between letting him sleep and waking him, he couldn't miss the shudder that suddenly wracked his frame, or the small sob as the demon curled in on himself further.

"Crowley?" Trying to soothe his friend, he gently stroked the side of his face, brow to chin.

"Cold," the demon whispered, still not quite awake. "So cold…"

"It's alright my dear, you're warm now," he comforted softly, gently stroking the skin.

Crowley sobbed, making Aziraphale's heart wrench. The demon hadn't cried in front of him since that time when they were drunk in North France and Crowley was getting upset about their devout faith.

"Help, don't want, _please_…" he breathed, bringing his hands up to cover his face. "Someone, anyone."

"It's alright Crowley," the angel repeated, feeling lost. He'd known Crowley for years, well since the dawn of time to be honest. He was quite comfortable with the demon's personality – scathing, slightly evil, rather witty at times, sinful and overly confident. He'd never known him to be lost or to rely on anyone. "Come on my dear, wake up. You're not alone, it's alright."

Crowley shifted again with a small moan, and Aziraphale couldn't resist – he pressed his lips to the cold temple that was inches away from him.

Predictably, that was when Crowley finally managed to wake up. Going almost cross-eyed with concentration, he tried to focus on the blushing Aziraphale above him even as he shivered.

"Do that again," he said quietly.

"Do what?" Aziraphale replied innocently, trying to fight the blush.

"Kiss me."

Unnerved by the strange expression on Crowley's face, he inwardly shrugged and pressed his lips back to the demon's temple.

"Why did you do that?"

Aziraphale was really lost now. "Because you told me to."

"But you didn't have to."

"No, I suppose not." He hesitated. "What's this about, my dear?"

Crowley ignored him, his gold eyes distant and sad but wondering at the same time. Reaching up, he touched Aziraphale's face gently, making the angel freeze.

"Why are you so warm?"

"Because you're still suffering from the cold, Crowley," he replied, more certain of himself now. "We really shoul-"

He was cut off as the demon leaned up and pressed cold, chapped lips to his. As part of him panicked, wondering if there was going to be a sudden clap of holy smiting or something –he was kissing a _demon_ – the rest of him relaxed. It was like kissing glass, not cold enough for ice, but not soft or warm like he'd always expected Crowley's lips to be. When he let a serpentine tongue into his mouth he realised, beyond the taste of cocoa from earlier, just what loneliness tasted like. Then Crowley was kissing him like he was a drowning sailor and Aziraphale was his last breath of air, and he forgot to think.

Now he was kissing him, Crowley just couldn't keep his hands off him. Earlier, Aziraphale's skin was so warm that he'd had to fight himself not to reach out for more flesh, but now he couldn't restrain himself, even though he knew he must feel uncomfortably cold to the angel. It couldn't be natural, the way that every time he touched that beautiful skin, every time it sent warmth curling into him, making him feel alive.

But then it wasn't really one sided, as when Crowley tried to pull away, tried to restrain his roaming hands that were itching to work underneath the soft jumper, Aziraphale practically grabbed his neck and pulled him back down again. He couldn't deny it then – he had wanted this for so long, to touch Aziraphale like this. It didn't feel real. But it was far too good to stop.

They touched, they explored, tasted, bit, fought, soothed. Every movement flowed into another as if it was predestined, though they were just running on instinct, on desire. They lost track of which of them was moaning, which of them was in control, they only knew that they were on fire.

In the end though, it was Aziraphale who was holding Crowley as he shuddered, following the angel into release and clutching onto him tightly. Burying his face in the angel's neck, he had to remember that he didn't need to breathe, let alone as hard as he was, and instead licked at the sweat he found glistening on the skin. He couldn't think of what to say, but he smiled lazily, genuinely as he curled around the angel's unresisting form.

"Warm now?" he heard Aziraphale ask softly from above him, and he turned so that he could look into the blue gaze that was looking at him.

"Definitely." Somehow, he felt that saying 'thanks' would just ruin the moment, so he settled for putting it into his expression instead and kissing the nearest bit of skin.

"Crowley…"

Said demon closed his eyes. He knew that tone – that was Aziraphale's 'we need to talk' tone. He really didn't want to hear it. Nevertheless, the angel ploughed on.

"When you were asleep…"

Ah, that was good. At least he didn't want to discuss That just yet.

"Did I snore?" Crowley asked lightly, opening his eyes to look amusedly at the angel below him.

"You had a nightmare," Aziraphale replied gently.

"Oh." Crowley resettled his head on the angel's chest, but it no longer felt as comfortable as it had a moment ago.

"You don't have to tell me," he cut in. "It's none of my business…"

"It's alright. It's just of when I Fell." He felt the sudden urge to babble. "It's the cold, you see. Snow and ice and wind and everything. It reminds me…"

Aziraphale hugged him tighter and he shut up.

After a moment, the angel ran his hands through Crowley's hair, a smile playing on his lips.

"I think we need a holiday," he said suddenly.

"But what about the bookshop?"

"Fiddlesticks, my dear. Besides, I've heard that Italy is nice this time of year."

An image of sitting, sunglasses in place, sunbathing on some nameless beach brought a wide grin to Crowley's face. Raising his arm, he clicked his fingers and a soft blanket appeared out of nothing to float down on top of them, settling directly over their bare skin.

"You know, I agree," he commented, shifting up so that he was face to face with the angel.

"All this snow is getting on my nerves anyway," Aziraphale lied, and though they both knew it was a lie after his earlier delight, they both ignored it.

"Italian wines, good food, nice beaches…"

"I'll make some reservations-"

"In the morning, 'my dear'," Crowley replied slyly, sliding his hand down the angel's chest slowly.

"Oh, yes," the flustered angel replied, with a small, shy grin of his own. "I quite agree."

He had to admit, some time later, that maybe the angel had a point. After all, snow had to be good for something…

He still hated it though.

* * *

_All except Aziraphale. As the angel had been there when he'd taken it for the test drive, and he could be easily discorporated, he could live with it. Besides, there was a special clause in the written Agreement - _

"_Neyther wone nor thee other of thee partyes shall cause harme to thee nayméd articles - _

_Aziraphale's books_

_Crawly's Bentley"_

_which had never ended, really. He had never been fond of paying for things._

_and ice - he wasn't being picky._


End file.
